This book does not belong to one soul alone. It belongs to all who have ever loved with a fire that consumed and left only embers; to those who wept in silence before the grave of what could never be; to those who dared to dream amidst ruins. What is told here does not unfold in this time, for love and pain have never belonged to one single era: they existed in stone-built towns, in streets lit by oil lamps, in plazas where the bells marked the hour of an inescapable fate.
Here lie stories of meetings and partings, of voices silenced too soon, of letters that never reached their hands, of promises shattered by war, by distance, by silence. Stories that still burn like hidden coals beneath the skin of memory. For in the end, our lives are nothing but a tapestry of moments: some woven with golden threads of joy, and others with the dark strands of tragedy.
The souls at the heart of this book bear no ordinary names, for their names could be those of any of us. They walked beneath skies of long ago, where hope and sorrow were inseparable lovers. Their footsteps echoed through cobbled streets, across empty fields, in stations where trains departed never to return. They loved in silence, as though love were too sacred a secret to speak aloud. And they suffered, for no true love exists without wounds.
In these pages, the voice of memory will speak. The voice of one who looks back with a torn heart, yet also with gratitude. For pain is not the enemy of life: it is the proof that we have lived, that we have felt beyond what is permitted. Without pain, there is no memory; without tears, there is no truth.